


And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

by vaguesalvation



Category: the GazettE
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguesalvation/pseuds/vaguesalvation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is exactly what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains mild BDSM themes, also descriptions of anxiety attacks.

The wood feels harder against his knuckles than it usually does. He figures he could probably blame that on the alcohol mucking up his perception, but the more he thinks about it, the more implausible it seems, if only because alcohol should make the door feel softer. But he isn’t really one to question the effects of foreign substances on his body, so he’s taking everything in stride now.

He leans heavily against the doorframe, waits, counts the footsteps behind the solid oak, one, two, three, four. All sound stops for a moment, his breathing stops with it, before he hears the deadbolt sliding free, the chain smacking against the wall inside, and then the door swings open.

He was afraid, when he was climbing the stairs of the apartment building, that he would wake the other man up, that he would be chased away because it’s just so fucking late and he should be sleeping, he should be wrapped in warm blankets in his bed at his own home. But he tried that, and the blankets weren’t warm, and mostly he just wanted to stop feeling so empty inside his own head. He wants to stop feeling so completely fucking alone.

“Jesus, Taka,” are the first words out of Kouyou’s mouth when the guitarist is finally in view. He squints against the light leaking out into the hallway from inside the apartment. It’s too late, too dark outside, for there to be that much light, and he wants to shy away from it, run away and hide in the darkness of the stairwells. But he figures, with the way Kouyou’s eyebrows are drawn together, the guitarist would catch him before he got far.

He only realizes how hot his skin is when Kouyou’s hand grips his wrist; when the temperature difference is so apparent it’s almost painful. But he doesn’t say anything, keeps his mouth shut tight, just follows the other man back through the door into the apartment.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Kouyou gets really angry when he comments on his mothering—it’s Yutaka’s job, he’ll say—but really, he’s just as bad as the drummer at times, especially if the person he’s clucking over happens to be named Taka or Akira. He doesn’t say anything tonight though, he doesn’t say anything, lets the other man help him out of his jacket and his shoes and follows obediently into the living room.

And that’s where it crashes, where he crashes, shatters into millions of tiny, tiny pieces that scatter out and away from his core, trying to separate themselves, so disgusted with each other. And that doesn’t make sense, because a moment ago, he was whole, if only with a few cracks, but the pieces still fit together, and now, now he’s left with nothing but the flayed open and overexposed interior and as cliché as it sounds, he feels like he’s stepped over the cliff, and he’s falling, falling, curling and twisting in on himself like he’s the enemy and he can no longer escape the truth of it.

Maybe he doesn’t want to escape anymore.

“Taka!”

Kouyou is there, always there, all steady hands gripping his arms, making him look up, making him see himself reflected back from dark, dynamic pupils. Taka could write whole albums about Kouyou’s eyes. If he could write anything at all that didn’t sound broken and disingenuous, it would be about Kouyou’s eyes. Because sometimes, it feels like that’s all he’ll ever really know.

“Taka, stop it! Breathe.”

He wasn’t even aware he wasn’t breathing, not until he lets his mouth fall open and oxygen floods his lungs in one, piercing pull. He almost chokes on it, almost closes off his throat again, because the air is just as traitorous as the rest of the outside world, treacherous and mocking. But Kouyou is still coaxing him to inhale, slow and measured, showing him with his own body like he’s afraid Taka’s forgotten how the action is supposed to look, supposed to feel.

It works to an extent, at least when Kouyou’s hands loosen a little on his arm—they don’t let go, as if Kouyou knew if he pulled away, Taka would start screaming—he’s able to breathe on his own again, without verbal and visible prompting. His eyes don’t leave Kouyou’s though. He just continues to stare.

The hands on his arms slide up, and Kouyou’s palms feel rougher than normal against his sensitive skin. He shivers, feels himself tremble when the hands come up to cup his jaw, holding his head in place. Like he has anywhere else to go, like he would turn away now.

When a thumb traces his cheek, he notices the tears, becomes acutely aware of the warm, wet tracks along even warmer skin. And he wants to scrub at them, a residual instinct left over from the man was before. Before he stopped being himself and everything fell to jagged fractions of something whole.

“What do you need?” Kouyou whispers, and he doesn’t have time to dwell on how scared the guitarist sounded.

“I—” He stops, the syllable just as broken and incomplete as the rest of him. He feels the panic surging again, because that’s not right, god, it’s not right, he should be able to speak, words should not get caught in his throat. Of everything in the world that he can call his own, words are the only things that truly feel right. They’re his to twist and manipulate into something meaningful and tangible and present.

But now, he can’t get his mouth to move in any specific combination, can’t force his voice past the lump in his throat.

For him, actions do not speak louder, but they’re all he has now, when words fail him. So he moves, viciously quick and undeniably clumsy, pressing his lips to Kouyou in some semblance of urgency, of insistence and pleading. And please, please, god, please understand. His own hands grip the soft fabric of Kouyou’s worn t-shirt, grasping at anything he can to hold himself up, to keep himself afloat for just a few more moments.

When did he start measuring his life in minutes? When did he start counting down until everything ended?

Kouyou holds him. It’s both surprising and not. He didn’t have time to think about being pushed away, but he didn’t have time to think about trust either, so he’s struck by this contradicting feeling of shocked satisfaction, and it makes him want to simultaneously pull away and press closer. He settles for letting his forehead rest against Kouyou’s, breathing the air from the guitarist’s lips.

“They…” he takes a deep breath, starts over, frantic now for the words—any words—to come out, “They’re eating at me, Kouyou. I can’t—I can’t give them what they want. I can’t be what they want—”

“—Hey,” Kouyou says, and his voice seems steadier, seems so much more confident, so much less vulnerable. It gives him a little hope. “Hey, look at me.” He does, his eyes open and Kouyou’s are too close, too blurry to really focus on, but he’s looking and he feels pleased with himself for one glorious moment, because it’s something he can do. Kouyou continues, “It’s… It’s okay.”

He feels it this time when he stops breathing, feels his lungs just fucking quit, refuse to keep working, and it hurts, fuck, it hurts. But no, no, it’s not okay, it won’t ever be okay again.

“No, fuck, Taka. Stop it!” Kouyou shakes him. “Breathe. Look at me.”

He tries his best to obey, and he finds it easier if only because Kouyou seems so sure that he can.

“What do you need?” The words tip the scale this time, send his mind into flashes of red images and suddenly, he knows, he knows what he needs and who he needs it from.

He leans in again, closing his eyes but doesn’t touch his lips to Kouyou’s, just lets them brush. And he’s still breathing, but his breaths are as quick and discordant as his heart beat and he call feel it all flying apart.

“Hurt me,” he says and the words feel like a prayer on his lips, “please, hurt me, fuck me, please, Kouyou, please.”

Once he starts, it’s like he can’t stop and he all but pulls himself into Kouyou’s lap, trying to get closer, and the words still catch on his tongue, but he keeps forcing them out, has to keep forcing them out for fear that he’ll forget them if he stops.

“Shh,” Kouyou coos, his hands slipping into his hair and moving so Taka is forced to stand with him, their lips still aren’t touch, a fraction of an inch separating them. “Okay, okay, shh.”

Kouyou kisses him then, using the grip on his hair to force his head back, his tongue pushing past their lips and running across the roof of Taka’s mouth. He shivers again, his eyes squeezing shut against the tears of relief that threaten to spill down his cheeks.

His chest is flush against the other man’s, and it’s impossible for him to get any warmer, but the heat bleeding through their shirts is almost unbearably satisfying. This feels both familiar and new, frighteningly comfortable. His hands unclench, let go of the guitarist’s shirt, all sore and cracking knuckles from the exertion of just holding on. But without the physical contact he feels extricated, uprooted, like without his hands keeping him grounded to the other man, he might simply float away. He lets his hands fall to the other’s hips, gripping just as tight as before, trying to pull himself back down to earth.

Kouyou pushes him, forcing him to take a step back. They move toward the couch in the center of the room. Taka bumps into the protruding arm, his knees buckling from the sudden force. His back falls against the squishy cushions with Kouyou on top of him.

Kouyou pulls away for a moment, looking down at him, pupils fucking blown, hair hanging down around his face. He’s breathing hard, his chest pressing against Taka’s rhythmically.

The guitarist sits back on his knees. “Scoot up.”

He gasps, stumbling over himself to obey the guitarist’s words. Any other time, Kouyou’s sudden aggression would be startling, now it cuts through him like a razor. He places his hands on the cushions beneath him and pushes himself up higher on the couch. Kouyou shifts, fitting himself between his legs, grasping his trembling knees and all but forcing his thighs apart.

He keens at the rough treatment, letting his head fall back against the arm of the couch, his eyes squeezing shut again.

He feels hands at the button on his jeans, hears the teeth of the zipper pulling apart, but it seems distant. Everything outside his own mind seems so far away, out of reach, blocked by the ever-present tension in his head that screams no, and wrong, and unwanted.

But Kouyou is there, Kouyou is tugging at his jeans and underwear to get them off, sliding hands up under his shirt, touching him like he is wanted.

And he would carve out his own heart, hold it in his fucking hands, outstretched, waiting for Kouyou to take it, to own it, because, fuck, he needs this. He needs this more than he’s ever needed anything in his entirely too-short life. He feels dead. He feels cold, but he’s hot, he’s so fucking hot, his skin flushed red with the blood coming to the surface. He’s exposed, but that’s okay. It’s okay because this is Kouyou, and Kouyou would never take that for granted.

The guitarist leans over him again, trailing hands with lips until the shirt is up and over his head and Kouyou mouths at his clavicle, biting down on the protruding bone. He whimpers, wraps his legs around the other’s waist and pulls until Kouyou is force to grind against his cock, hard, god, he didn’t even notice.

“God, fuck.” The words feel wet against his neck and his hand tightens in Kouyou’s hair, pulling the guitarist down so that he can arch into the hands wrapping around his waist. He feels small, delicate almost, and it’s scary to think Kouyou could break him like this, could take those hands and wrap them almost completely around him, snap him in half. But he wouldn’t stop it; he would let Kouyou break him if that’s what the other man wanted.

“Need you…” he says, his head titled back against the arm of the couch, his words whispered into the air above them, “Please, Kouyou…”

He swears his voice has never sounded so breathless, even when he’s onstage, barely able to hold the note at the end of the song because his lungs feel like they’re ready to burst, not enough oxygen, not enough to keep him fucking alive. But still, it’s always there, it’s tangible and he can feel it surrounding him. Not like the way it flits away from him now, lost somewhere in the sound of heavy breathing and the white noise of the city.

He wants to cry, he wants to close his eyes and let the tears take over because he’s such a fucking wreck, he’s wrecked and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to put himself back together this time. He’s shattered pieces of a man he thought might be worth something, but the only thing worse than feeling something valuable break, is knowing that trying to fix something is pointless, because it was never really good enough to begin with.

“Stop thinking.” The words are sharp in his ear, just like the teeth that scrape along the hollow beneath it. “This isn’t about thinking, Taka. Just let go.”

Kouyou’s voice grips him, holds him together like tiny threads, keeping him from unraveling. At the same time, it’s sharp, piercing, breaking through the fog in his mind. He’s surrounded by it, filled with it, and he can’t bring himself try to remember what it was like before Kouyou was there.

Another zipper, and somehow it sounds louder.

“Do you want me to—”

“—No,” he whispers, frantic, hurried, “No, just do it.”

He feels Kouyou nod against his neck, shifting to line up, and then fucking slamming in. And it’s exactly what he needs, how he needs it, he can almost taste it in the back of his throat, the want, the desire, the more, more, more. He tries to beg, plead, but the only sound from his lips is a high-pitched gasp.

His nails draw perfect crescents in the guitarist’s neck, just as telling as the pretty purple bruises Kouyou is painting on his hips. Teeth break the skin over his throat. And the pain is achingly beautiful, creates splashes of red across his vision with each upward thrust, each undulation of Kouyou’s hips.

The guitarist is talking still, but the words are unintelligible. It doesn’t matter, he still hears them, they’re still there, making sure not to leave his mind alone. He’s full of the other man, the presence pushing against his own, fitting them together until he can’t tell where the line was even supposed to be.

The realization is remarkably emphatic, pulling his thoughts back into sharp focus, and finally, finally he can feel himself again, can see around the haze of self-deprecation he was hiding behind.

He stops breathing again, but this time, it’s because a hand closes around his throat, tight, lacking hesitance, so, so certain. He chokes on the air that gets caught in his lungs, and it comes out in a strangled, forced moan. Kouyou’s hand forces the tendons in his neck to rub painfully across his esophagus, scratching against the ridges.

The red in his vision turns black, closing down around him as his lungs burn, pleading for air, and his fingertips start to buzz with numbness.

Oxygen was only unimportant when it wasn’t being stolen from him. Now, it’s necessity is evident, but Kouyou seems unconcerned with his struggle to breathe, just tightens his grip until Taka is sure his windpipe is going to be crushed.

He comes hard between them, the intensity of his release shaking his entire frame, wracking his body under the other man’s and forcing a strangled scream from his sore throat.

Kouyou’s hand loosens suddenly, and the first inhalation of oxygen seems to freeze his lungs. He feels the guitarist still above him, shudder, and then the white heat of Kouyou coming inside him. The sensations oppose each other, but neither feels less intoxicating.

Kouyou presses his nose to the side of his face as he pulls out, and the hand that had been wrapped around his throat settles heavy over his chest.

“Breathe,” the guitarist whispers, but it’s much less urgent than before, just a gentle coaxing down from the high. Because that’s all that’s needed now. He can breathe on his own again, is able to remind himself to keep inhaling. But it’s nice, a pleasant reminder that even after the raw need has abated, Kouyou is still there.

“Your shirt’s all sticky,” he says, the first words from his mouth that actually sound like his own, and he almost wants to laugh in elation. He settles for a smile.

Kouyou pulls the cotton t-shirt off, throwing it to the ground beside the couch. He settles back against the cushions and shifts them until they’re lying on their sides, foreheads pressed together. It’s all sweat and hot breath between them.

“You scared me,” Kouyou says, brushing a strand of Taka’s hair behind his ear.

“I’m sorry.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know. A while.” He shrugs. “It just sort of… took over today… I couldn’t push it away anymore.”

Kouyou nods, like he understands, like he gets it.

Taka thinks he probably does.


End file.
